He knew what to do.
Slowly Thrall rose. The setting sun—An’she, to the tauren people—in its riot of color bathed the black plate. Then, slowly, Thrall began divesting himself of it. First he unfastened and then slipped off the shoulders. They fell to the soft, green grass with a musical, clanking sound. Next, he began unfastening the breastplate. It had once been dented by the blow that had cost Doomhammer his life. That blow had been a cowardly one—it had come from behind, a spear strike that had shattered the back plate and dented the breastplate from the inside. Thrall had ordered it repaired, so that it could be worn again.
Piece by piece, the armor of Orgrim Doomhammer, the armor of the warchief of the Horde, was removed and placed with reverence on a growing pile. Thrall reached into his pack and pulled out a simple brown robe, pulling it over his head, and then draped the string of prayer beads about his neck. Aggra’s words came back to him: We do not wear armor in our initiations. An initiation is a rebirth, not a battle. Like the snake, we shed the skins of who we were before. We need to approach it without those burdens, without the narrow thoughts and notions that we have held. We need to be simple, clean, ready to understand and connect with the elements, and let them write their wisdom on our souls.
He removed the boots and rose, his bare, green feet on the good, solid earth, his arms outspread, his head tilted back, his blue eyes closed. He greeted the arrival of twilight not as the warchief in ceremonial garb. It was not who he was, not anymore. They had shown him, the elements. But he had perhaps acted in time—he was choosing to shed the armor and the title of warchief rather than having it torn from him. The choice was in his hands—and he made it freely, calmly.
Thrall was a shaman. His responsibility no longer lay only with the Horde, it lay with Azeroth itself, and the elements that cried out to him for aid, to save them from the dreadful catastrophe that loomed ahead, or to heal them if it turned out he was not in time. The wind, still warm and gentle, picked up, as if caressing him in approval.
He lowered his head and opened his eyes. His gaze fell upon the body of his friend one last time. As An’she set in the west, making a striking silhouette of Thunder Bluff, a final ray seemed to fall upon the body. Arranged atop Cairne’s broad chest were all the ritual adornments he had worn in life—feathers, beads, bones. And something else. Pieces of wood, broken, with blood and carvings to adorn them.
Thrall realized that he was looking at pieces of the legendary Bloodhoof runespear that Gorehowl had shattered when Garrosh dealt the killing blow.
And with the realization came a wave of loss, fresh and raw, and Thrall understood that the pain he had felt up until this moment was a pale shadow. And he had a lifetime left to endure without his old friend’s kindness, wisdom, and humor.
Impulsively Thrall leaped gracefully onto the pyre. The poles used to create it swayed a bit but held beneath his weight. Thrall reached out a hand and placed it on Cairne’s brow, then, gently, reverently, picked up the smallest piece of the broken runespear. He turned it in his hand, and a shiver went through him.
The piece he had selected bore the single rune: Healing. He would keep this, to remember Cairne by. To always be in touch with his heart.
Thrall jumped lightly to the earth and began to walk slowly toward the setting sun. He did not look back.
The wind was slightly chill after the sun had gone, Thrall reflected. There was much that yet needed to be discussed with Baine, much planning that still needed to be done. Yet before that Thrall desired a little time to sit with Aggra in this peaceful land. She had never been here, but like him had responded to the gentleness and tranquility of the place. She—
* * *
A continent away, Drek’Thar, who had been dozing, bolted upright. A scream was torn from his throat.
“The oceans will boil!”
The ocean bed cracked open, and miles away, the tide drew back from Stormwind Harbor like a curtain. Ships were suddenly grounded, and citizens of that city out for a pleasant afternoon stroll along the beautiful stone harbor paused, shielded their eyes against the light of the setting sun, and murmured to one another, idly curious.
The ocean drew in upon itself for but a moment. Then what had pulled back began to return, with a lethal intensity. A towering wave bore down upon the harbor. The great vessels that had sailed to such exotic, faraway places as Auberdine and Valiance Keep were smashed to so much kindling, like toy ships beneath an angry child’s foot. Debris and bodies now crashed into the docks, destroying them just as easily and quickly, sweeping away the now-screaming pedestrians as the water rushed implacably forward. The water rose, drowning engines of war and crates of medical supplies with equal ruthlessness.
It did not stop there. It continued to climb, until even the mighty stone lions that stood watch over the harbor were completely submerged. Only then did it seem to halt.
Miles to the south, a crack in the earth off the coastline of Westfall had created a huge sinkhole. The ocean was angry, and frightened, and it vented its terror upon the land, and the land responded in despair.
Drek’Thar clung to Palkar, shaking him, shouting, “The land will weep, and the world will break!”
* * *
The earth split beneath Thrall.
He leaped aside, landing and rolling and getting swiftly to his feet only to be knocked off them again. The ground beneath him surged upward as if he were riding the back of a great creature, lifting him up and up. He clung to it, unable to rise and flee, and even if he did flee, to where?
Earth, soil, and stone, I ask of you calmness. Share with me what it is you fear, name it, and I will—
The earth did have a voice, and now it screamed, a rumbling, agonizing cry.
Thrall felt the rip in the world. It was not here, not in Thunder Bluff, nor even in Kalimdor—it was to the east, in the midst of the ocean, in the center of the Maelstrom. … This, then, was what the elements had been so afraid of. A shattering, a cataclysm, breaking the earth as Draenor had been broken. Through his connection with them, their terror surged through him, and he, too, threw back his head and shrieked for a long moment before unconsciousness claimed him.
* * *
He awoke to the tender touch of beloved fingers on his face, opening his eyes to see Aggra looking down at him with a worried expression. She relaxed as he gave her a weak smile.
“You are tougher than you look, Slave,” she teased him, though her voice conveyed her relief. “I thought you had decided to join the ancestors there for a few moments.”
He looked around and realized he was in one of the tents atop Thunder Bluff, maybe in Spirit Rise. Baine was standing beside him.
“We found you lying on the earth, a short distance from the funeral grounds, and brought you here, my friend,” said Baine. He smiled slightly. “My father loved you in life, Thrall, son of Durotan,” he said. “But I do not think he would have you join him in death quite so soon.”
Thrall struggled to sit up. “The warning Gordawg gave us,” he said. “We were too late.”
Her eyes were compassionate. “I know. But I also know exactly where the wound was made.”
“In the Maelstrom,” Thrall said. “I got that much before I …” He grimaced.
She touched his shoulder, feeling the texture of the soft robe. “You do not wear your armor,” she said quietly.
“No,” said Thrall. “I do not.” He smiled gently at her. “I have shed my skin.” He turned to Baine. “If you would—I would ask that you send someone for it. Though I no longer wear the armor of a warchief, I would have it brought to Orgrimmar. It is an important part of our culture.”
“Of course, Thrall. It shall be done.”
Aggra sat back, glancing at him and Baine. “So what do we do now?”
Thrall reached up and grasped the young Bloodhoof’s hand. “Baine … you know I came back with the hope of both helping the Horde and the elements. And I believe I can still do both these things. Just … I can no
longer achieve both goals as warchief.”
Baine smiled sadly. “I have no love for Garrosh Hellscream, although I do believe him innocent in the poisoning of my father. I confess I would prefer to see you again leading the Horde. But after what has happened, I understand that you must go. Reports have been coming in—every place with a shoreline facing the South Seas is reporting tidal waves and storms. Theramore, Stormwind, Westfall, Ratchet, Steamwheedle Port. The Undercity has had massive quakes. Fires burn in Ashenvale from lightning strikes.”
Thrall closed his eyes. “Your understanding makes this easier, Baine. I love the Horde. Along with your father, I built it into what it is today. But there is a greater need, and it is that need I must attend to. Immediately. I will send word to Orgrimmar and then prepare to set sail to investigate this … wound to the world. The Horde must get along the best it can without me.”
* * *
Drek’Thar wept, tears falling from blind eyes. Palkar knew better than to doubt him. He felt nothing, at least not here, not physically, but he could sense the world’s distress. And so when Drek’Thar inhaled a sobbing breath and turned his face up to his young caretaker, Palkar waited for what the seer would impart. The younger orc’s blood seemed to run cold in his veins at the words.
“Someone is breaking down the door! Bar it! Do not let him in!”
Drek’Thar had been right before. He had been right about everything. There was no doubt in Palkar’s mind that he was right about this.
The only question was—who was the mysterious intruder?
EPILOGUE
Thrall breathed the sea air, letting it stir his hair and beard. Above, in a sky still pink with dawn, seagulls wheeled and called. The little town of Ratchet was quiet at this early hour, although a few people had roused themselves and had come to see him off on his journey. Thrall closed his eyes and exhaled, smiling a little.
“I like to see you smile,” said Aggra, standing beside him.
He opened his blue eyes and gazed down at her, the smile widening. “You should get used to it, for with you, I seem to smile much more often.”
The words were true, but even though Thrall’s heart was full and his mind at peace with his decision, there were many uncertainties and, he was sure, trials yet to come. He took her hand in his and squeezed it.
They had come to Ratchet from Thunder Bluff, sending word ahead to Orgrimmar and the port town while he and Aggra finalized their plans. One of the greatest sailing vessels of the Horde fleet had been prepared at lightning speed for the journey to the Maelstrom. As Thrall and Aggra rode their wolves down to the dock, they were greeted by Gazlowe. He looked a bit bleary-eyed, and Thrall suspected he had not yet seen his bed, but he gave them a wide, sharp-toothed smile nonetheless.
“Your courier told us to get this ship ready, and we did!” Gazlowe said. “Fresh water, a few barrels of beer and grog, plenty of supplies—you’re all set for your voyage, Warchief!” He did a double take at Aggra and then bowed low. “Hel-lo, you must be the lovely young shaman I’ve heard so much about.”
“I am a shaman, and my name is Aggra,” she said, eyes narrowing. “And you might be?”
“Gazlowe. Me and that big lug of yours go way back,” the goblin said, beaming. Clearly either he hadn’t noticed Aggra was irritated, or else he simply was unperturbed by it. “Like what you’ve done with his style. Simple brown robes—understated, sharp. It’s a good look for the big guy. Always happy to have the warchief and, now, his lady come to visit.”
“I am not the warchief,” Thrall said, “not for some time anyway. Garrosh will continue as acting warchief in my absence.”
Gazlowe grumbled a bit. “Bad business that, with Cairne.”
Thrall sobered. “True,” he said. “A tragedy that has lessened us all. But Garrosh did not act dishonorably. And that is all I will say on the matter. You say the ship is ready?”
“Ready and waiting,” Gazlowe said. As they approached, Aggra saw the name of the ship.
“Draka’s Fury,” she said, grinning. “A good choice for our journey.”
“It seemed to fit,” Thrall said. “I wanted to honor the strong orc females who have blessed my life.”
Aggra actually blushed and looked a little flustered. “It will be a long journey.”
“But the right one,” Thrall said. He did not have a second thought. He had been called, and he would go. Not as warchief, but as himself.
As Thrall.
Son of Durotan and Draka.
Shaman.
NOTES
* * *
The story you’ve just read is based in part on characters, situations, and settings from Blizzard Entertainment’s computer game World of Warcraft, an online role-playing experience set in the award-winning Warcraft universe. In World of Warcraft, players create their own heroes and explore, adventure in, and quest across a vast world shared with thousands of other players. This rich and expansive game also allows players to interact with and fight against or alongside many of the powerful and intriguing characters featured in this novel.
Since launching in November 2004, World of Warcraft has become the world’s most popular subscription-based massively multiplayer online role-playing game. The Wrath of the Lich King expansion sold more than 2.8 million copies within its first twenty-four hours of availability and more than 4 million copies in its first month, breaking records to become the fastest-selling PC game of all time. More information about the upcoming expansion, Cataclysm, which continues the story of Azeroth where this novel ends, can be found on worldofwarcraft.com.
FURTHER READING
* * *
If you’d like to read more about the characters, situations, and settings featured in this novel, the sources listed below offer additional pieces of the story of Azeroth.
• Thrall’s intriguing background—depicted in Warcraft: Lord of the Clans by Christie Golden—has allowed him to form strong bonds with humans such as Jaina Proudmoore. You can find more information about Thrall and Jaina’s friendship in World of Warcraft: Cycle of Hatred by Keith R. A. DeCandido as well as in issues #15–20 of the monthly World of Warcraft comic book by Walter and Louise Simonson, Jon Buran, Mike Bowden, Phil Moy, Walden Wong, and Pop Mhan. Additional insight into the lives of Thrall’s ancestors is revealed in World of Warcraft: Rise of the Horde by Christie Golden.
• In this novel, Prince Anduin Wrynn struggles to cope with the violent and short-tempered “Lo’Gosh” side of his father, Varian. Further details about Anduin’s relationship with Varian, as well as his life as the prince of Stormwind, are depicted in the monthly World of Warcraft comic book by Walter and Louise Simonson, Ludo Lullabi, Jon Buran, Mike Bowden, Sandra Hope, and Tony Washington.
• The headstrong Garrosh Hellscream appears alongside Thrall in issues #15–20 of the monthly World of Warcraft comic book by Walter and Louise Simonson, Jon Buran, Mike Bowden, Phil Moy, Walden Wong, and Pop Mhan. In addition, a glimpse into Garrosh’s life before he became a praised hero of the Horde can be seen in World of Warcraft: Beyond the Dark Portal by Aaron Rosenberg and Christie Golden.
• The treacherous events of the Wrath Gate, including the tragic death of the Horde hero Saurfang the Younger, are portrayed in the short story “Glory” by Evelyn Fredericksen (on www.worldofwarcraft.com).
• Orgrimmar’s arena has seen many brutal battles, one of which was between Garrosh Hellscream and Thrall. The reasons behind their duel and its outcome are shown in issue #19 of the monthly World of Warcraft comic book by Walter and Louise Simonson, Mike Bowden, Phil Moy, Richard Friend, and Sandra Hope.
• Drek’Thar is an aging and absentminded orc shaman in this book, but he once acted as Thrall’s tutor in Warcraft: Lord of the Clans by Christie Golden. Drek’Thar’s past is also described in World of Warcraft: Rise of the Horde by Christie Golden.
• Jaina Proudmoore strives to mediate conflicts between the Alliance and the Horde in the monthly World of Warcraft comic book by Walter and L
ouise Simonson, Ludo Lullabi, Jon Buran, Mike Bowden, Sandra Hope, and Tony Washington, as well as in World of Warcraft: Cycle of Hatred by Keith R. A. DeCandido. You can read about Jaina’s earlier years before she became the ruler of Theramore in World of Warcraft: Arthas: Rise of the Lich King by Christie Golden.
• Even before the world-altering events of this novel, King Varian Wrynn’s life was plagued with difficulties. World of Warcraft: Tides of Darkness by Aaron Rosenberg, World of Warcraft: Arthas: Rise of the Lich King by Christie Golden, and the monthly World of Warcraft comic book by Walter and Louise Simonson, Ludo Lullabi, Jon Buran, Mike Bowden, Sandra Hope, and Tony Washington all offer insight into Varian’s background, including his mysterious past as Lo’Gosh and his relationship with his son, Anduin.
• King Magni Bronzebeard plays a minor role in issues #9–11 of the monthly World of Warcraft comic book by Walter Simonson, Jon Buran, Jerome Moore, and Sandra Hope. Additionally, Warcraft: Legends volume 5—Nightmares by Richard A. Knaak and Rob Ten Pas reveals Magni’s fears about his daughter, Moira, and the Dark Iron dwarves when his dreams are plagued by foul magic from the Emerald Nightmare.
• Before becoming one of Thrall’s most trusted advisors, the orc Eitrigg led a life of solitude. Eitrigg’s intriguing history and the events that led him to join Thrall’s side are depicted in Warcraft: Of Blood and Honor by Chris Metzen.
• High Priest Rohan, Anduin Wrynn’s wise dwarven ally in this novel, plays a role as a member of the new Council of Tirisfal in issues #23–25 of the monthly World of Warcraft comic book by Walter and Louise Simonson, Mike Bowden, and Tony Washington.
• Further details of Magatha Grimtotem’s tenuous relationship with Cairne Bloodhoof are disclosed in issue #3 of the monthly World of Warcraft comic book by Walter Simonson, Ludo Lullabi, and Sandra Hope.
• Archdruid Hamuul Runetotem is featured in issue #3 and issues #23–25 of the monthly World of Warcraft comic book by Walter and Louise Simonson, Ludo Lullabi, Sandra Hope, Mike Bowden, and Tony Washington. The venerable archdruid also plays a minor role in battling the foul magic of the Emerald Nightmare in World of Warcraft: Stormrage by Richard Knaak.
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